Classic Poem

His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead
His tender smiles, Love's day-dawn on his Lips
That put on such heavenly spiritual light
At the same moment in his steadfast eyes/
Were virtue's native crest, the innocent Soul's
Unconscious meek Self-heraldry--to man
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel--
He suffered, nor complain'd; tho' oft, with tears,
He mourn'd the oppression of his helpless Brethren,--
And sometimes with a deeper, holier grief
Mourn'd for the oppressor: but that in Sabbath Hours--a solemn grief,
That like a Cloud at Sunset,
Was but the veil of inward meditation,
Pierc'd thro'
And saturate with the intellectual rays, it soften'd.